


Everything I Wanted

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Bad Boys, California, F/M, Gangsters, Infidelity, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Minor Violence, Ned Stark's Funeral, New York, Organized Crime, Sexual Tension, mafia, past relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: She loved him through everything, but circumstance tore them apart.Years later, with a diamond ring on her finger and a hardened heart, a funeral brings Sansa home – and back to Jon.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 99
Kudos: 414





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again!

As Sansa Stark drives down the dusty road, she forces her mind to stop.

She sees the sprawling mansion on the horizon, a place she once called home, and tiny shards of pain stab at her chest. It feels like she's dragging them in with every breath, so she fills her lungs with smoke instead, keeping one hand on the wheel as the other blindly reaches for the pack of Malboro Reds she keeps on the passenger seat.

She’s been trying to quit, but old habits die-hard. The double meaning isn’t lost on her, and her stomach clenches in painful anticipation.

The cigarette hangs between her teeth as she searches for her lighter. It's hot, unbearably so, yet the summer breeze extinguishes the flame every time she tries to light it. She briefly curses herself for renting a convertible and she hears Ned Stark's derisive voice, words like _goddamn death trap_ whispering in the wind.

Her smile falls at the thought of her father and just like that, that tightness in her chest is back.

Ned would never worry about her again. He'd never play in the pool with Rickon on his shoulders against Robb with Arya on his. He'd never tell Bran off for climbing trees that were too high, or Jon for swearing. He'd never make love to his wife, or laugh or cry or smoke those cigars that made them all cough – and no-one could tell Sansa _why._

She doesn't realise she's crying until she tastes her tears.

She furiously brushes them away.

Crying is for the weak, and she is not weak. Not anymore.

Cigarette hanging between her index and third finger, she watches her knuckles turn white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. Her engagement ring glitters brightly in the glow of the setting sun, flashing like a disconcerting reminder, a warning sign.

 _You're not sixteen anymore,_ she reminds herself, _he has no power over you. It's over._

Months later, when the world has turned and history has repeated itself, Sansa will remember this moment – because it's _not_ over and she _knows_ it.

It wasn't over the day she ran, his words a cold warning snapping at her heels – _"if you do this, if you leave me now, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever."_ It had hurt, had made her pause at the door, but it was nothing compared to the pain that ripped through her when he had choked _"Sansa_ , _please_. _"_ She'd never heard him beg before, never heard him say the word.

It wasn't over when he wrote her on her 21st birthday and said he _did_ hate her, but he missed her more. It wasn’t over when the letters began to fade and all she had left of him were the scraps Arya gave her. It wasn't over when those letters stopped too — when she learnt father was preparing him and Robb to take over the family business and despair formed in the pit of her stomach because _that_ was exactly why she left in the first place.

It wasn't over when Harry pushed a pale blue Tiffany box across the table towards her and she found herself saying _yes –_ because she was tired of being broken. Because she couldn't get up in the morning and she could barely eat and barely _breathe_ and she couldn't stop missing him.

She had to do something… so she did _that_.

So no, as she pulls into the impressive drive of the only place she's ever called home, she knows it's not over.

Because she's Sansa, and he's Jon, and you only get _one_ of those in a lifetime.

As soon as Sansa enters the house, letting herself in with the key she never lost, she picks up a discarded sweater in the hallway and hangs it on the coat rack.

It's a trait she's picked up from her mother - everything must be perfect, no cracks on the surface - and her heart tugs painfully again.

When she was little, she noticed how people would stop in the supermarket to look at her mother. She always had big, shiny hair and lips painted perfectly red and simple, diamond jewellery on. Everyone called Catelyn Stark classy, and Sansa agreed.

"Sansa," her voice croaks from where she's appeared in the hallway.

She doesn't look classy now.

She looks tired and grief-stricken and at least twenty pounds lighter than the last time she saw her.

Not for the first time, guilt twists in Sansa's stomach like a knife.

"Mom," she chokes out – _I should have been here –_ and rushes to her.

Catelyn trembles in her arms, her body wracked with sobs, and Sansa struggles to reign in her own. She holds her tighter, feeling the thinness of her frame, the bones that poke out from under her skin. She hasn't been eating, that much is obvious. She hasn't been taking care of herself – but then, how _do_ you take care of yourself when you've just lost the love of your life?

"I'm sorry," it's a choked whisper into her mother's hair, "I'm so sorry, Mom. I should have come sooner."

Catelyn pulls back, giving a stubborn sniff and holding her daughter by the forearms. She steps back slightly, her wet eyes trailing up and down her frame.

"You're here now," she says softly – and then she's crying again.

Some reunions are easier than others.

She runs into Theon next, embracing him fiercely and slipping into a familiar back and forth. He helps her unpack her car, carrying a case with a simple black dress inside, one she wishes she had no occasion to wear. She doesn't miss how his brow arches and he gives a low whistle at the sight of the shiny convertible.

Sansa's skin prickles uneasily, because this isn't fancy cocktails and expensive dresses at the Avalon. This isn't mindless chatter with conceited socialites who don't care about her.

This is _home_ and it's _Theon._

An honorary Stark, she's known him her entire life; as long as she's known Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon and people she doesn't want to think about. His awe makes her uncomfortable, makes her feel like a liar. Deep down, she wonders whether she's been lying for a long time. She's certainly been running.

"Does he talk about me?" she asks eventually, because clearly she's a glutton for punishment and Theon's the best person to ask. He won't press the subject, won't judge.

"Sometimes," he shrugs, his cigarette hanging between his teeth as she walks behind him into the house. He doesn't need to ask who she's talking about and he pushes the door open with his shoulder, "to Robb and Arya."

"Is he angry at me?"

"He was," his voice is quieter then, "he's not anymore."

Sansa nods shortly, feeling cold.

Somehow, that answer is worse.

Robb's next, sitting at the desk in the office, hands tented against his mouth in a way that makes him look so much like father.

The symbolism isn't lost on Sansa.

She cries when she sees him, unable to hold it in any longer. Tears roll down her flushed cheeks as he lifts himself out of the chair she never wanted for him. He's silent as he walks around it, pausing in-front of her. He looks at her with Tully blue eyes identical to hers, and then he wordlessly curls a hand around the back of her neck.

He touches his forehead to hers, graceless and desperate, his eyes drifting shut and his fingers burning into her skin.

She screws her own eyes shut, grief and despair rocketing through her, as she finally lets herself feel. She wraps her arms around his middle and presses her tear-stained cheek to his chest. She listens to the steady beating of his heart, finding comfort in the brother she's always loved best.

She knows she shouldn't feel that way, shouldn't have favourites, but she does. She adores Robb. She has since she was a little girl and he'd sneak lemon cakes into her room before supper, putting his finger to his lips with a hushed _"don't tell Mom"._

That's why she never wanted this for him. For him _or_ his best friend, his right-hand man, a man she _can't_ think about. Not now.

"I'm sorry," she sobs again, and again, and again.

He doesn't look angry at her, but he doesn't say it's okay either.

Bran doesn't smile, doesn't show much of anything on his face, when she leans down to embrace him in his wheelchair.

Bran doesn't feel much of anything anymore.

It's the first thing she notices hasn't changed, and the one thing she wishes had.

Rickon's always felt too much at once, always struggled to make sense of the conflicting emotions that rocket through his young body like hurricanes. He shouts at her and cries, has a breakdown but holds onto her leg after. He was seven when she left, now he's eleven, and the difference is startling. He's not the same boy she left, and he's angry at her.

But this anger, the way he tells her she's _annoying_ and _stupid_ for leaving them _,_ is nothing compared to the vitriol Arya spits at her.

"Look who's back," she practically snarls from the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

Arya was fifteen. Now she's nineteen, a woman grown.

Sansa stops unpacking, her gut churning as she lays that black dress down on the pink bedspread, her room unchanged since the day she left. Her hand brushes over it, straightening an invisible crease.

"Hey, Arya."

It's only a greeting, but it's clearly the wrong thing to say because Arya's temper flares as she steps into the room and in-front of her.

" _Hey?_ " she repeats, mocking, "is that seriously all you have to say?"

"I'm sor—"

"I swear to _god,_ if you apologise to me…" Arya interrupts in a growl, "I will _beat_ you."

Sansa's own temper flares then, her hands itching at her sides. It's like instinct kicking in; fight or flight. She wants to run again. She wants out of this conversation.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks, giving a sad shrug, "what could possibly make this better?"

Arya's expression falters for a moment before those walls are back up around her. She's among the most stubborn of them, second only to Jon, and her jaw clenches in frustration.

"I want you to _say_ where you've been for four fucking years, Sansa. I want you to say what could _possibly_ have compelled you to run like that, to toss us aside, _your family,_ for some perfect little life with your perfect friends and perfect school and perfect, _boring_ boyfriend in LA. You think we don’t hear about you? You think Father and Robb and Jon don't have eyes on you, _always_? We know you’ve been having a great time while we're all fucking _drowning_. You're so selfish, I'm surprised you're even here. I'm surprised Dad's heart giving out was enough to make you come back."

Sansa remains silent throughout her outburst, thinking she deserves it. Arya could be spiteful, she remembers that much, but there are stubborn tears swimming behind her sister's dark eyes, a shake to her hands, and Sansa realises something.

Yes, she's incensed and angry and she probably hates her right now, but more than that, she's _hurt._

She wants to cry again. She never meant for everything to get so _fucked up._

"I loved Dad," she says fervently, "you know that."

Arya's jaw ticks and she blinks back hot tears.

"He loved you too. We all do," Sansa's chest feels too tight at her use of the present tense, "it didn't stop you from leaving us."

"There were… circumstances," Sansa struggles, screwing her eyes shut against the images that sear behind her vision; _Jon's skin mottled with bruises, blood-soaked clothes, her desperate pleas for this to stop, his jaw clenched tight in stubborn refusal_ , "I couldn't stay, Arya."

"You could have visited," her sister insists angrily, "you didn't even come back for Robb's wedding."

Guilt flares under her skin at that, at the fact that she's never even met her sister-in-law, a bright young girl called Margaery who apparently worships the ground Robb walks on, and vice versa.

In a strange way, she's jealous of her. Jealous of this stranger who's _chosen_ this life, who can clearly cope with everything Sansa hadn't been able to.

"It was too difficult," she insists, "Arya, I thought about you every day."

It's not a lie. Sometimes she missed her family so much it was like there was a hand gripping tight around her heart. But she had to protect that heart, had to protect _herself._ She wanted to be _free_ , to go to school and carve a career outside of the family and their politics, drenched in blood. It had been self-preservation, but she can see how her sister would feel left behind. Her anxious fingers twist the engagement ring on her finger, a habit she's recently acquired, and she regrets it when Arya's eyes flash to her hand.

"You're kidding me," she fumes, "you're _engaged?"_

"His name's Harry," she replies uncomfortably, "he's nice."

Arya's eyes narrow, her arms crossing over her chest again.

"You're going to hurt him," she says bluntly.

An ache flares in Sansa's chest again. She's not talking about Harry.

"Arya, I can't do this right now. Please. We'll talk later."

"I am so angry at you," Arya shakes her head after a beat and the first tear escapes before she can stubbornly wipe it away, "I just don't see how you're going to make up for this, for any of it."

Sansa can't either, because everything is so very different. Because Rickon's voice is deeper and father's gone and Robb's a husband now. She just wants to run away again and everything, _everything,_ is wrong.

"Enough, Arya."

A low, smooth voice interrupts them, cold and quiet but commanding all the same. Sansa closes her eyes against the sound. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the room, and she doesn't need to turn around to know who it is.

But turn around she does – and _there he is,_ Jon, leaning against the doorframe of her childhood bedroom like he never left it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa remembers the last time she saw him.

He'd been wearing a crisp white shirt, collar loosened and tie discarded, with black trousers and his hair was wild, the way it always was when he'd had a long, hard day and he'd been running his hands through it. She'd been watching him do just that for the best part of an hour, wincing as he paced and tugged and punished the curls.

Today, he's standing against the door-frame, arms crossed over his chest. Back then, he'd been by the window, his hands above his head, gripping the frame. Her eyes flit to the right and she sees the ghost of him standing there. Her chest feels too tight with the memory.

She hears him say her name - _Sansa -_ low and deep in that gruff brogue. That way that was always his, like a husky prayer, a revelation. No-one said her name quite like he did - no-one then, no-one since. She can't tell if he's speaking now, or if it's just in her memory.

_"Sansa please...” he’d murmured, resting his forehead against the pane of glass, ”don't make me beg.”_

_She'd bitten the inside of her cheek; she couldn't cry anymore._

_"I don't want you to," she'd shoved the last of her clothes into a bag and tried not to look at him, "I've made my choice."_

Over the years, as the longing she felt for him turned from a searing pain to more of a dull ache, she wondered if it was the right one. She just learned how to live with it, with the ache, like the pain from a phantom limb. She tried not to think about him, tried to avoid any news of him, even as he grew powerful and more important and _harder_ _to_ avoid.

Now, he's here. He's right in front of her, looking strong and calm and more well rested than when she'd left him. His face is just the same, but he has a beard now and his dark hair is tied back in a bun and _damn it,_ he's even more beautiful than she remembers. She'd hoped she'd become immune.

Arya breaks the awkward silence.

Sansa had forgotten she was there.

"I'll leave you two alone."

Arya doesn't smile as she leaves - there's not much to smile about in the Stark mansion these days - and Sansa doesn't miss how Jon's stormy eyes don't leave hers, not even as her sister brushes past him.

And then she's gone and he's closing the door and Sansa can't breathe.

He waits. His arms are still crossed over his chest and his head is tipped to the side, a pose that reminds her of his precious Ghost. He just looks at her, calm and unreadable. He’s more comfortable with silence than she is, more reticent, more controlled, but she remembers a time he wasn’t, when he was passionate and intense and a little obsessed with her.

As always, he waits for her to come to him.

But she’s not sixteen anymore, not a child. She’s done walking towards him. She won’t fall into his hands, even if she knows just what those hands can do. Her eyes drift to them without her permission and her cheeks flare with heat at the memory.

His eyes narrow slightly, as though he can read her mind. She stands tall and reminds herself that she’s twenty-four years old, not five. She can do this. She takes a step towards him, feeling like she’s approaching the firing squad. There’ll be a scene, that much she’s sure of. There always is when they’re together, like two volatile substances, two flames dancing close to each other, crackling and splintering away before they explode.

“Aren't you going to say hello to me?” he says eventually, all low and smooth. His head is still tipped to the side and his hands are clasped behind his back and for a moment, Sansa hates him. She hates how unaffected he is, how he’s looking at her like they’re strangers, rather than two people who once meant the world to each other.

There was a time they shared everything. She had all of him, all the parts he didn’t let anyone else see. To them, he was a moody boy turned dangerous man. She knew better, saw through the cracks to the hurt underneath. She saw how broken he was, unwanted and unloved by everyone except the Starks, and she knew he could be kind.

But those acts of kindness were few and far between, and she couldn’t be his moral compass. He could never understand that stopping himself from doing something wrong just because she asked him to wasn’t quite good enough.

“Hello,” she murmurs eventually, voice hoarse from disuse. She clears her throat, knowing he’ll be able to tell if she’s uncomfortable.

Jon smells weakness like blood in the water.

He doesn’t say anything else; doesn’t tell her she looks good, doesn’t ask how she is or if she’s missed him or if she’s really engaged. He just takes another step towards her, so close now she can feel the heat of him, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a packet of Luckies and there’s a flash of white as he places one between his teeth.

Her eyes flicker to his mouth, as pretty as she remembers – she always said he had a mouth that would make any girl jealous - and she swallows past the sudden lump in her throat. When she doesn’t move, he arches a brow at her, his gaze flickering from her eyes to his hand, where he holds the packet out for her, and back to her eyes again.

“No,” she mutters and shakes her head, “trying to quit.”

The corner of his mouth tips into a smirk, as though he can see right through her, before he pulls a lighter out and engulfs the end of the cigarette with the flame.

He snaps the lighter shut, slipping it back into his pocket. The snap of metal breaks the silence, painfully loud, increasing the tension. She can hear her pulse pounding, her blood rushing in her ears. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a drag, slow and almost suggestive, and Sansa wants to look away but she just _can’t._

They’ve barely said ten words to each other but the atmosphere is just the same, heady and intense, the air too thin between them. It’s both painful and comforting, achingly familiar, and her chest feels too tight.

She needs to distract herself, needs to claw back solid ground. She moves over to the window where he once stood, once asked her to stay, and pulls it open. She breathes in the fresh air, cooling her burning cheeks.

“Mother won’t be happy if my room smells of smoke,” she waves a hand, gesturing for the cigarette smoke to leave through the window.

He looks almost amused for a moment, before he controls himself.

“Your mother has bigger things to worry about.”

She pauses at that, the reminder of why she’s here, who she’s lost, like a knife to her heart.

“I’m sorry,” he speaks again, quieter this time, and she’s not exactly sure what he’s apologising for, “about your father.”

She shakes her head, her eyes and throat burning.

“He wasn’t just mine,” she murmurs. She knows what Ned meant to him - knows he meant _everything_ to him - and even after all that’s passed between them, she never wants him to forget he meant everything to Ned too, “He belongs to all of us – and you, too.”

Jon nods, seemingly cool and collected, but she doesn’t miss how a muscle near his left ear ticks as he tightens his jaw.

It’s silent for a moment, the atmosphere stretching out tense between them, as he takes another drag of his cigarette.

She shuffles on her feet, searching for the words.

“Arya hates me,” she settles on eventually.

His mouth twitches under his new beard but it’s not quite a smile.

“She doesn’t hate you. She loves you and she’s missed you,” he tells her, and she wonders if he’s talking about Arya at all – and then she reminds herself that it doesn’t matter.

He comes to stand next to her by the window, blowing the smoke outside. Their shoulders brush and she fights the urge to draw back in fright, a warm sensation she hasn’t felt for four years sparking to life inside her. Her reaction to him is still so powerful, so visceral, it scares her as much as it grieves her.

They’re silent for a moment as she tries to stop her eyes from roaming to him. She wonders if he’s thinking what she’s thinking, remembering the same moment.

_“Is it because you want to see other people?” he’d asked._

_“Don’t be ridiculous, Jon,” she’d answered quickly, easily, “there will never be anyone else.”_

She believed it at the time, young and stupid and completely, _desperately_ , in love.

_“I’ll never stop loving him,” she’d told Arya once, voice tinged with sadness, “even if it doesn’t make much sense anymore.”_

But now there _is_ someone else. There’s Harry – and he’s kind and stable and a _doctor._ Jon’s hands have been covered in blood for entirely different reasons, and they’re opposites in every way. She can’t imagine what Jon would make of him. Jon, with his leather jacket and his cigarette hanging between his teeth. Harry, in his sweaters, giving sermons on the damage those cigarettes do to your body.

 _Really,_ she should be asking what Harry would be making of Jon—

She needs to stop comparing them.

Maybe he is remembering that moment – _there will never be anyone else –_ because suddenly his cigarette is gone and his eyes are flickering down to her hands. She’s gripping the tops of her arms, rubbing them against the cold, and more specifically, his gaze is focused on the ring on her fourth finger.

The light catches the diamond just right and it glimmers cruelly.

Her tongue feels too big for her mouth, her throat dry, and she fights the urge to hide her hand. If he didn’t know before, he certainly does now, and his expression is infuriatingly difficult to read.

It throws her, the fact that she doesn’t know how he’ll react. When he was ten, he would have pouted and said something like _“but you’re my Sansa. You’re my person.”_ When he was fifteen, he would have reached out and held her wrist, feeling her pulse, the charged connection between them rendering words futile. When he was eighteen, he would have laid her down on his sheets and spent all night reminding her why she was his. He’d leave her a boneless, quivering mess, and he would never ask her to take it off. When he was twenty-two, he would have seen it as a challenge, would have _wanted_ her to keep it on. He’d give her ten orgasms but only _“I love you”_ would be enough – because _“I love you”_ was all she ever wanted.

Now he’s twenty-six and already deep into the life she never wanted for him, and she doesn’t _know_ this Jon. She doesn’t know this expression on his face, all guarded and restrained, and she mourns for the intense, passionate boy she loved.

This Jon doesn’t frown or cry or beg or tell her she’s made a huge mistake.

He doesn’t show much of anything, but he slowly takes her hand.

He’s cold, but his fingers burn where they touch her skin. She bites back her reaction as he turns her hand in his slightly and looks at the diamond. He doesn't look at her, eyes focused on their hands, and his lips twitch into a somewhat melancholy smile.

As quickly as the moment began, it’s over.

His thumb swipes over the back of her hand, just once, before he gifts it back to her.

He looks at her and his steel grey eyes are darker than before.

“I’m glad you’re home, Sansa,” is all he says, before he leaves her in her room, an ache where his hands once were.

Sansa stares after him.

She doesn’t quite know what she expected – but it wasn’t that.


	3. Chapter 3

The funeral is brutal, as Sansa knew it would be.

Flanked by her siblings on either side, her fingernails dig into her palms, etching moon-shaped crescents into her skin.

Arya and Rickon cry, Robb and Bran don’t, and Eddard Stark is lowered into the ground with minimal fuss or ceremony.

She watches her older brother’s jaw clench so tight she’s worried his teeth will break. His whole body is taut with frustration, brimming with barely restrained anger, but tears are a weakness Robb can’t afford. Not now he’s head of the family, the man of the house, a man who needs to be feared.

Margaery Stark, neé Tyrell, stands beside him, her hand in his. Clad in a skin tight black dress and sunglasses just as dark, she’s as beautiful as everyone had said.

Sansa’s own fingers twitch to hold someone else’s, to feel that same comfort. But Harry’s not here, and the alternative – standing opposite her on the other side of the casket as it’s lowered into the ground – is too painful to think about.

Theon’s next to Jon, a Greyjoy and a Targaryen who loved Ned Stark like a father. He took them in when they were young, riddled with guilt when his men took out Balon Greyjoy and found little Theon cowering in a closet upstairs. They say he has a sister, but they never found her, and Theon’s been with them ever since.

Jon’s story is even sadder. They say Ned loved Lyanna Snow like a sister, that they had grown up together in a destitute corner of Harlem. Father never talked about her, but Sansa remembers the soft way he would look at Jon, how he’d tell him he had his mother’s eyes, nothing of his golden-haired father in him. Lyanna had died in childbirth, bleeding out in an apartment as dirty as the one she’d lived in, and her fiancé had taken his anger out on the man she’d left him for, sparking a feud between the Baratheons and Targaryens that began with Rhaegar’s death and raged on even today.

Jon cares little for it. Ned always told him who he was, right from the start, but he’d been happy with them, with the Starks – or as happy as a man like Jon could be.

Sansa wonders if that’s changed, if it’s enough for him to be Robb’s right hand man, when he could be king of his own empire.

The Targaryens are gone, but he remains, and so does Robert Baratheon.

Jon’s heritage has always been the Stark’s best kept secret. He’d been born with black hair and grey eyes, an uncanny resemblance to Ned’s late brother Benjen, and this is how he raised him. To the rest of the world, he was Ned’s orphaned nephew, a lie that shielded him from Robert’s wrath.

Sansa’s stomach clenches at the realisation that he might be in danger now Ned is gone. But she can’t think about that now. She can worry about him and her mother and Robb and everyone else later.

It can all wait.

She has to say goodbye to her father first.

An hour after it’s done, after the eulogies are read and the flowers are laid and Ned Stark is buried under six feet of dirt, Sansa watches her mother’s hands shake as she busies herself in the kitchen.

“Mom,” she moves into the room, her voice a whisper as she gently grips Catelyn’s wrists, “stop. Let me help you.”

“I’m fine,” Catelyn grits out too quickly, stubbornly wiping away a tear as she sniffs and continues unwrapping a lasagne she’d stress-made the day before.

“Your guests are waiting,” she tries a different tack, appealing to her sense of duty, “they’ll want to pay their respects. I can put the rest of the food out.”

Catelyn pauses before nodding reluctantly, planting her hands on the counter as though she needs a moment to steady herself. She takes a breath, turning to Sansa with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, before she gently pats her cheek and goes to greet the guests.

She tells her to go, but Sansa can’t stand the quiet when she does.

She takes a breath, bowing her head and placing her own hands on the counter, where her mother’s had just been.

Memories sear behind her eyelids, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Her vision blurs, tears stinging her eyes, as she sees her father sitting at the head of the kitchen table. He’s reading the New York Times and smoking a H. Upmann cigar, and he laughs gently at Catelyn’s delighted announcement that President Kennedy smokes those too. The memories trace back further and she sees him feeding Rickon in his highchair and ruffling Arya’s hair and carrying a tearful Bran in from the yard with a new scrape on his knee.

She feels the ghost of his kiss on her cheek as he mumbles good morning. 

Her lungs burn with every breath as she quickly wipes away her tears. She has to compose herself because Jon’s walked into the kitchen, and she feels him before she sees him.

He’s silent as he moves to stand next to her. He arches a brow slightly as he reaches out to take the lasagne from her.

His fingers burn where they brush hers, electricity sparking at his touch. She draws back slightly and tries to conceal her reaction with a cough. Judging by the look on his face, she doesn’t succeed, and he’s pulling back with the tray in his hands.

“Sansa,” _there it is,_ her name again, “there’s something you should know – something that’s happened since you’ve been gone.”

Her brows draw together in a frown, an unsettling feeling stirring in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?”

He pauses, one hand curled around the tray as the other reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. She knows that gesture, knows it means he’s uncomfortable, and it’s so uncharacteristic, it just makes her panic more.

He clenches his jaw again and before he can speak, there’s a crash and a scream outside.

Sansa rushes into the living room where friends and family should be comforting each other and eating the shitty food and sharing stories about Ned.

Instead, Theon’s struggling to hold a raging Robb back and her mother’s sobbing and Robert Baratheon’s on the floor with thick blood gushing from his nose.

Sansa rushes to the rest of her siblings, standing wide eyed as Jon brushes past her to help with Robb. It takes both of them, him _and_ Theon pinning his arms on either side, to restrain him and still, his top lip curls into a snarl.

It must be nearly a decade since she’s seen Robert Baratheon, her father distancing himself from his old friend for obvious reasons, but she recognises his stocky build, that thick, almost copper beard and dark eyes. He’s rising to his feet now, spitting out a pool of crimson blood, and Sansa’s eyes flit to her brother again.

“Robb hit him,” she whispers out of the side of her mouth.

Arya rolls her eyes. “Good spot, genius.”

Sansa matches her expression, giving an eye roll of her own. “But why?”

When Sansa left, the Baratheons and the Starks were friends. Tentatively so… but Robert and Ned respected each other. Now, Robb looks like he wants to tear the older man apart limb from limb and Sansa wonders if this has anything to do with what Jon wanted to tell her.

Margaery moves over to Robb and Sansa watches with equal parts awe and curiosity as she places a hand on his chest. He starts to relax, his wild eyes darting to hers, his body slackening slightly in Jon and Theon’s grip.

His expression softens as he looks down at her, all love and adoration, and Sansa burns with inexplicable jealousy.

“Calm down, my love,” she hears the other woman murmur, “this achieves nothing.”

“A lot’s changed since you left,” Arya finally replies. 

As though emphasising the point, Sansa watches in horror as Robert’s gaze darts to Jon.

His eyes narrow with hatred and her blood runs cold.

“Get out,” Robb seethes through gritted teeth, controlled enough that the boys allow him to shrug himself out of their grip, “get the fuck out of my house.”

Catelyn covers her tearful face with trembling hands. Bran and Rickon stare on in shock, fitting in with the rest of the guests. Arya looks ready for a fight. Margaery still clings to Robb’s chest and Theon’s brow is furrowed, his hand hovering on Robb’s arm. The thing that makes Sansa’s stomach drop, however, is the flash of metal she catches out of the corner of her eye when Jon’s suit jacket shifts slightly over his hip.

 _Don’t,_ she begs wordlessly, just like so many times before.

“Your father and I were great friends, son,” Robert Baratheon insists in the same booming voice she remembers, “I merely came to pay my respects.”

“I know why you came,” Robb growls, sounding more like Greywind than himself, and Sansa notices how his body instinctively shifts towards Jon.

He’s protecting him, she realises, just as he’s always protected him. Brothers by bond, if not by blood.

Robert smirks, wiping some more blood from his nose with a black handkerchief from his pocket. It’s already starting to swell; Sansa wouldn’t be surprised if it was broken.

“Alright... perhaps I _did_ come to see Lyanna’s boy in the flesh,” he takes a step forward and the confirmation of it has Sansa’s stomach dropping. She takes a step towards Jon too and notices the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers splaying as if to tell her to keep back. She listens for once, entirely out of her depth.

“Who told you?” Catelyn whispers this time, voice choked with tears.

She looks heartbroken and stressed and mostly very, _very_ tired.

Robert smirks again, a humourless laugh falling from his lips.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” he answers her but his hateful eyes are still on Jon, “you look like her. I should have known.”

His voice is quieter then, a twinge of sadness in it, but Sansa can’t feel sorry for him. Not when he’s looking at Jon like he wants to bury him next to the father he knew and the one he didn’t.

Jon doesn’t reply, his own gaze hard and unyielding, a muscle in his jaw ticking. His fingers twitch at his side, probably preparing to reach for his gun, and Sansa says a silent prayer again.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Robb’s speaking again, all low and gruff and hurt, “just admit it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Robert shrugs, casually adjusting the cuffs on his jacket as his nose still bleeds.

“You son of a bitch,” Robb mumbles darkly, then he’s lunging for him again and Jon and Theon are pulling him back, “you fucking son of a bitch, you killed him!”

Sansa’s blood turns to ice, a vice around her heart. The room fills with shocked gasps, the world pausing on its axis, before all hell breaks loose.

 _“Fuck's sake,”_ she hears Jon mutter under his breath. He grabs Robb by the waist with a grunt, yanking him backwards and dragging him out of the room. Margaery follows them, her expression icy and collected through all the drama.

Robert looks pleased with himself, even as Theon has to pick an enraged Arya up too, holding her tight to his body as she kicks out.

“Please, Robert,” Catelyn speaks in a whisper then, quiet and exhausted, “please just leave.”

Whether through respect for her or because he’s got the reaction he wanted, Robert Baratheon leaves with a smirk curling his lips.

And there it is, Sansa thinks - the end of life as they know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned... much to be revealed!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL WHO CELEBRATE! Hope you all had a fab day <3 
> 
> Have some angst *sprinkles*

“What did Robb mean,” Sansa asks Arya the next day while they clean in the kitchen, “when he said Robert Baratheon killed father?”

Arya pauses from where she stands at the sink, washing a plate. Sansa watches the movement of her shoulders as she takes a breath and drops the china, her hands gripping the edge of the sink instead.

“They don’t tell me anything,” she says quietly, the irritation clear in her voice, “Robb and Jon and Theon just lock themselves away in that stupid office. They treat me like a child.”

Sansa’s fingers strum the surface of the kitchen table. She notices a chip in her nail polish and thinks if she were in LA right now, she’d be stressing about that. Now it seems so mundane, so stupid, and her stomach twists with guilt again.

“I’m sure that doesn’t stop you,” she says softly, remembering her little sister’s propensity for sticking her nose in other people’s business. Even when she was a child, she would never allow herself to be shielded from the dangers of the family business.

Arya turns slightly and Sansa catches her smirk. It’s still tense between them - she hasn’t quite forgiven her - but Sansa’s determined to rebuild their relationship, stone by stone. Arya turns around, leaning her back against the sink and crossing her arms over her chest.

“They said Dad’s heart gave out,” she starts, cautious to keep her voice low so their mother doesn’t hear from the next room, “but he saw Dr Luwin a few months back for a check-up and everything was fine. Sure, he smoked those cigars we all hated and he had the occasional drink, but he was healthy… and then he was gone. Robb thought it was fishy.”

Sansa sits back slightly in her chair as everything clicks and slots into place. She tries to keep her voice casual as she ponders out-loud, “and I suppose Robert has a motive now, given that he knows who Jon is.”

She’s not fooling anyone and Arya arches a brow.

“He’s probably furious. Not only that Lyanna had a baby with someone who wasn’t him, a _dragon_ nonetheless, but that his best friend hid it from him – hid Jon - all these years. Robb thinks it’s a slight he couldn’t let go unpunished.”

Sansa’s silent for a moment, processing the information. Images sear behind her vision; dragons, wolves, lions, stags, krakens - _The Five Families_ \- and she can’t keep up. This is what she wanted to run away from, the life she wanted to escape, and a sickening foreboding feeling washes over her.

Somewhere, deep down, she knows she _can’t_ escape. She’s a wolf. As much as Father was, as much as Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon. A wolf can’t change its nature, no matter how much it tries to twist and bend itself into something else.

“What will Robb do?” she asks, though she’s afraid of the answer.

Arya shrugs, looking remarkably unfazed.

“I suppose he needs to find out if it’s true or not,” she starts, “if it was poison or something else. He needs to find the leak, who snitched about Jon’s heritage. Maybe it _was_ a heart attack, maybe Dad wasn’t as healthy as we thought he was. You know what he was like, always shielding us from the truth.”

Sansa smiles in sad agreement, remembering Ned’s fierce desire to protect his girls from the harsh reality of the Stark family business.

“What if it wasn’t?” she asks suddenly, and she’s not smiling anymore, “what if Dad _was_ murdered and Robb has to seek justice?”

“Well,” Arya sniffs, rolling her shoulders with an audible click, “I wouldn’t want to be the person who gets in his way.”

There’s a dark tinge to her words, a foreboding sense of dread, and a shudder passes through Sansa.

She knows her brother, and she knows Jon and Theon, and she wouldn’t want to stand in their way either.

Back in LA, Sansa had told her friend Jeyne Poole about Jon.

She had described their bond, there since the day she’d opened her eyes on the world. She’d told her how he was the first boy she’d ever loved. She’d explained how powerless she had felt when she was with him, how he could be cruel and violent – never to her, of course – but she’d seen it. She’d seen how fiercely he defended their family, seen his hands stained with blood.

 _Remember this, Sansa,_ Jeyne had said, _you are never going to be able to change Jon. You have no control over him. Maybe he’s changed, but it’s more likely he hasn’t. You know what sort of person he is; you’ve always known. But you_ have _changed. You were this quiet shell of a person when you came to LA. Now you’re strong and intelligent and kind. You have a great career ahead of you, you’re renting an amazing apartment in a great location, you have a wonderful fiancé and even better friends, if I may say so myself. You are in control of your destiny. You are in control of your choices._

Sansa appreciates her friend trying to help; Jeyne is kinder, more genuine than most of the conceited socialites she tried to fit in with in LA. But more often than not, her impassioned pep talks were parroted from her own experiences on the therapist’s couch. She’d been involved with an awful man, by all accounts; a man named Ramsay who left her pale skin mottled with purple and gave her black eyes on more than one occasion.

While Sansa always appreciated her friend trying to help and she grieved for what she’d been through, their situations were never the same.

Jon would _never_ hurt her. In-fact, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. He would die for her, kill for her, rip the world apart just to get to her.

 _That’s_ what she had been afraid of.

If Sansa’s honest with herself, whenever she imagines any great success in her future, it’s always Jon’s face she sees.

Back in LA, when she was sipping cocktails in the Avalon or listening to Harry tell her about his day or just lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, she would sometimes allow herself to indulge in a fantasy. She would daydream that the next time Jon saw her, he would be amazed by her strength, her success, the transformation she had undergone.

In her mind, as she struts across the stage at law school to pick up her diploma, Jon’s sitting in the front row, ashen faced and reverent. He stares up at her with stunned appreciation, with unmistakable regret that he’d ruined things between them. She even imagines him crying at her wedding. It’s a ridiculous notion on all accounts, but she wants to triumph over him, as juvenile as that sounds.

In her dreams, he would look like he’d aged a decade, like tiny shards of himself had fractured away the further she'd travelled from him.

Of course, like most things in life, it hadn’t happened that way.

Wrapped up in a blanket outside on the porch step, watching the sunset, she almost rolls her eyes at how melancholy the whole thing is, how maudlin.

She remembers how they would talk of the future, all tangled up in the sheets. 

_“You will be my wife,”_ he would whisper into her skin like it was inevitable, and when his hips moved and rutted against her, she would cradle his groan in the hollow of her throat _, “and you will be loyal to me, and only to me. Do you understand?”_

A choked moan would be her only response.

Jon wanted to be powerful and loved and enough, but to her he always was.

She’s so deep in thought she wants to pretend she doesn’t hear him when he opens the back door and stands behind her. She wants to pretend she doesn’t feel him, that she’s immune to his presence.

But then he’s closing the door behind him and coming to sit next to her.

She glances to him, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and she feels too much… nothing and everything, all at once. She stares at him for a beat in a trancelike state of terror and anticipation. It’s not a comfortable thing. Not something exciting, but something paralyzing – like when all the oxygen has been sucked up around you and it leaves you breathless like you’ve been kicked in the stomach.

Her heart feels like it’s folding – in half, then half again – and his face is a beautiful, blank mask. She recognises that lack of expression. It’s rare to see him without a frown, and he’s truly upset, truly troubled, when he wears no expression at all.

He breaks the silence.

“Why haven’t we seen each other in four years?”

Sansa’s heart clenches again, her chest too tight.

“You know why,” she murmurs, staring straight ahead, thinking of blood and tears and desperate pleas.

Judging by the sound he makes, all hollow from the back of his throat, he doesn’t like her answer.

“You could have visited,” he says, less angry than Arya but cutting all the same, “you could have come back.”

She looks at him then, the air growing heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“I couldn’t.”

She couldn’t dip in and out of his life, having parts of him, bits and pieces until he upset her and hurt someone and she had to leave again. She couldn’t have half of him. It had to be a clean break.

But his thigh is gently grazing hers and he smells like smoke and whiskey and nothing about this feels clean.

“You were never gone,” he says quietly, “no matter where I was, you were always with me.”

She glances the poet in him then, the intense, passionate young boy he used to be. He used to write constantly, used to call her his muse, and somewhere along the way, he got lost. He stopped writing, stopped laughing and playing and dreaming. He became darker, rougher around the edges, and Sansa grieves for the boy she loved.

She tries to change the subject, her heart too heavy.

“Are you safe here? Now Robert Baratheon knows who you are?”

He gives a small shrug, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a packet of cigarettes.

“Probably not,” he answers easily, placing one between his teeth and reaching back into his pocket for the lighter, “but I’m not running.”

Sansa watches him light the cigarette, finding the strength to shake her head when he offers her one.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she murmurs, “you belong here.”

The corner of his lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile, and he blows the smoke sideways.

“I don’t belong anywhere.”

 _I’ll always be with you,_ his tone seems to say.

“You do, Jon,” she says, because despite everything, despite what’s happened between them, she only ever wants him to be safe and happy, “you’re a Stark… _and_ you’re a Targaryen.”

He glances at her, expression unreadable, before he takes another drag.

“You know…” he blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth again, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm as his cigarette hangs between his fingers and he gives a sigh, “there wasn’t one day… in those four fucking years… when I didn’t think of you.”

Sansa’s eyes and throat burn, inexplicably sad. She had thought of him too, in moments that called for it and moments that definitely didn’t. His brows are furrowed, an expression she’s familiar with, and he looks annoyed. Perhaps he thinks he’s given too much of himself away, or he’s just irritated with the situation, how very lost they are – Sansa doesn’t know.

She just knows it’s too late for them, and she can’t afford to lose herself in _what might have been’s._

He’s standing up and stubbing his cigarette out with his foot before she can say a word.

“You should go inside,” he says evenly, “it’s late… and I suppose you have a long journey tomorrow.”

She just nods dumbly and watches him leave, the door slamming too hard behind him.

He pretends he's indifferent, pretends he doesn’t care, but the bitterness in his voice cuts through her colder than winter.


	5. Chapter 5

"Knock knock," a musical voice rings from the doorway as Margaery Stark pokes her head around the frame.

Sansa blinks for a moment, forcing a smile as she places the book she's reading on the table beside her.

The other woman enters without waiting for Sansa's acknowledgement, a force of nature as she grips a vase of colourful flowers in her hands.

Sansa watches her curiously as she places the vase on the table, gently moving Sansa's book to the side, before she takes a seat opposite her with a satisfied smile.

The atmosphere stretches out between them, slightly tense.

"They're beautiful," Sansa tries eventually, wringing her hands in her lap.

Margaery smiles brightly, completely at ease, the fire to Sansa's ice.

"They're from the Karstarks," she says, referencing a family with a lineage that goes years back, one whose loyalty has always been pledged to the Starks, "Alys is sick so they couldn't make the funeral."

Sansa nods, remembering the Karstark girl from when they were children. She'd always been sickly, always sheltered inside while they all played. She's saddened but not surprised to hear of her condition.

"I thought it was time we got acquainted," Margaery's continuing in that chipper voice before Sansa can reply, "if I'm honest, I was rather nervous about meeting you."

Sansa quirks a brow, surprised. Margaery exudes confidence, her smile lighting up a room, her very presence turning heads. She can't quite process _this woman_ being intimidated by her _._

"You were?"

Margaery makes a sound from the back of her throat, a kind of disbelieving scoff.

"Robb talks about you all the time," she starts, voice somewhat filled with awe, "he adores you. They all do."

Sansa smiles, her chest suddenly feeling too tight. It's a warm feeling mixed with guilt, guilt that she left them alone in the world, floundering without her, because of everything she couldn't handle.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make the wedding," she says quietly, the guilt only worsening when she realises she can't even remember what she was doing instead, "I was… busy."

If Margaery's offended by her lame excuse, it doesn't show. That practiced smile remains etched on her face, no cracks on the surface. In-fact, she leans forward, taking Sansa's hands in hers, and her touch is warm.

She swipes a thumb over the diamond on Sansa's finger.

"Arya tells me we'll have yours to look forwards to soon enough," she says, a strange note to her voice. Sansa can't tell what it means, can't quite read it, but Margaery's smile falters for the first time.

Sansa shifts somewhat awkwardly, and she feels she owes her an explanation – her sister in law, the only one she has, this woman who clearly means the world to Robb.

"When I was younger, things got very… difficult for me here," she hides behind euphemism because she's a coward, she always has been, when it comes to Jon, "I had to leave, try and carve out a new life for myself. The family can be suffocating."

She regrets saying that almost immediately, doesn't want to scare her off and hurt Robb in the process. That's the last thing she'd ever want to do, but Margaery's grip only tightens around her fingers.

"You're here now," she says softly and Sansa doesn't want to correct her, to say that she can't stay, that it hurts too much to be here and if father were alive, she probably wouldn't be, "I think we're going to be great friends, Sansa."

Sansa smiles back because her happiness and optimism is infectious. She's struck by the desire to know how she does it, how she can cope with everything Sansa couldn't, and more than that _why,_ because she has a choice.

She's a Stark by marriage, not by blood.

Sansa doesn't understand it, but then, she only remembers the bad times with Jon. Deep down, she knows that for every bad memory, she has at least two good ones. It's just harder to remember them.

"How did you and Robb meet?" she asks, sitting back slightly in her chair when Margaery gifts her hands back to her.

A wistful smile flashes over her face, the apples of her cheeks blooming red.

"A party downtown, one of those jazz clubs I love and he loathes," she starts, laughing prettily, "you might think me a fool, Theon and Arya always roll their eyes when I say it, but it was love at first sight. Eyes connecting from across the dancefloor, butterflies, fireworks, all of it."

Sansa smiles at the love in her eyes, the clear adoration she has for Robb.

"I don't think you're a fool," she says, "I believe in love at first sight too."

"You had that with your fiancé?"

_Not with him._

The love she has for Harry is sensible, cultivated over the years, built stone by stone. It's a steadier kind of love, more reliable than sparks and butterflies and passionate arguments and even more passionate make up sex. It's more mature, she thinks. It'll last. But she can't say it was love at first sight because it wasn't.

When she met Harry, though he was worlds away, her heart was very much Jon's. He has a piece of her that Harry can't touch, something that upsets him more than she wants to think about.

Back in LA, she'd found it easy to talk to him about her parents and her siblings. She'd chattered for hours about Arya's strength, Bran's intelligence, Robb's bravery. She told him how due to the age difference, she'd been like a second mother to Rickon. How her mother was kind and her father was the best man she knew. She even spoke about Theon and his wicked sense of humour and his even more wicked way with women.

The name she _never_ spoke was Jon. She was raised with him, but she _never_ mentioned him. Not even once. She told no stories of him, laughing with a longing, wistful look in her eye. There were no photographs of him in the treasured collection she kept. His absence became conspicuous, especially when Harry – accidentally, he says – opened a letter from Arya before the letters stopped.

"Who's Jon?" he'd asked innocently, his blue eyes swiping across the page, "your sister says he's gone missing on an _assignment_ – what the heck does that mean? – and she's worried about him."

She'd snatched the letter from him, eyes wide and stomach dropping. She'd gripped the paper in her hand, scrunching it, and though she tried to change the subject, Harry didn't miss how white she turned, as white as a ghost. Her hands had shook and her heart pounded against her chest, terrified for him, before she slipped her impeccable mask back on.

Jon had been fine but Harry didn't forget, and over the years, her first love became an almost palpable presence between them.

"Something like that," Sansa answers Margaery eventually, plastering a fake smile on her face.

Margaery's eyes narrow somewhat, like she can see straight through her, and Sansa gets the impression she's a very astute woman indeed.

"Well, I had it with Robb. I saw him, brooding at the bar, pretending to listen to Theon, and I just _knew_. I knew he was the one for me. I walked straight over to him and basically ordered him to buy me a Tom Collins," she laughs at the memory, rolling her eyes at her own brazenness, "he tried to put up a fight, of course, but I told him straight that I was the one he'd been waiting for and there was no point resisting."

Sansa laughs back, somewhat jealous of her fire.

"Why on Earth would he?" she asks.

Margaery shrugs.

"I was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon," she says easily, like it means nothing when Sansa knows it means everything, "I suppose he thought it wouldn't be a good idea to anger the Lions and Stags."

Sansa blinks, thinking the statement somewhat obvious. She's surprised by her brother, by his blatant disregard for the rules, his willingness to break oaths and invoke a feud between families, but... she understands. She knows better than anyone that you can't help who you fall in love with.

"I never loved Joffrey," Margaery's continuing before Sansa can say anything and her voice takes on a fiercer tone, "he's cruel and childish and he certainly didn't love me. I don't know if I even believe in God, but there's not a day that goes by where I don't thank him for bringing me Robb. But... with everything that's happened, I know he blames himself. If the Baratheons were involved in your father's death, my betrayal will have played as much a part as Robert's hatred for Jon. I don't think the boys will ever forgive themselves."

Sansa sighs, a sad feeling festering in the pit of her stomach.

"Robb can't help who he fell in love with," she tries to reassure her, "any more than Jon can help who his parents were. If Robert was to blame, we will find out. We'll make things right."

She doesn't realise she's said "we" until after the fact, and it throws her.

"You'll stay, won't you?" Margaery reads her reaction, arching a perfect brow, "just for a little while... while we find our way?"

Sansa considers it for only a moment before she finds herself nodding. She can't leave them again, not now, not while Mother still cries and Robb's lost and Jon's in danger. She wants to help, _needs_ to help, and she's sure Harry will understand her extending her trip. She'll write to him in the morning, she thinks. For now, she wants to know more about Margaery and her allegiances.

"The Tyrells aren't allied to anyone," she notes, remembering what people said about the Roses. They were a shrewd family, adapting with the times, promising their loyalty to the strongest, "this isn't a life I would have chosen for myself. I was a born a wolf, but you can walk away at any time."

Margaery smiles that secretive smile again.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm in love with your brother," she says simply, "wholly and completely. I know this life is difficult, but if I had to choose between being safe and free or never seeing him again... well, it's not a choice at all."

Sansa stares at her, this woman so strong and sure in her choices, and the guilt is back again.

She had been in love with Jon. She had loved him so completely, so intensely, it had made her physically ache - and yet she walked away. She made the choice.

"But how do you know?" she whispers, voice thin with everything she's tried to suppress for four years, "how do you know that things will be okay? You're vulnerable when you love someone that much, someone who belongs to this family. There's so much violence, so much blood and tears and things that are wrong."

Margaery's smile turns sadder, and her eyes flicker with understanding.

"Yes, but there's also loyalty," she starts, "bravery and glimmers of kindness and a fierce desire to protect the ones they love. It's not all bad, Sansa. There's good in him, I've seen it. He can put love above it all, can put it first."

Sansa sighs, her chest too tight.

"But how do you _know_?"

A shadow passes over Margaery's expression then, more serious than it's ever been.

"Because I know Jon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry no Jonsa, but I hope you enjoyed a bit of backstory for Margaery and Robb (because we all know Robb loves to break a marriage oath!) and the beginnings of a friendship for her and Sansa...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello? *Titanic voice* Anyone alive out there? I'm so sorry it's been so long, I just could NOT get this chapter right. I'm still unhappy with it tbh but oh well. For the jazz club part, think Sinatra/Billie Holiday version of "I'm a fool to want you". Really sets the tone and atmosphere, I think.

"Are you sure, Mom?" Sansa's brows knit together, her head tipped to the side as she watches her mother fuss over the kitchen table, her cloth swiping over spots long clean.

Catelyn sighs, wiping the back of her hand over her forehead.

"We have to get back to normal."

It's a new normal, life without Ned Stark, and Sansa worries for her mother.

"But a party, _now?_ " she asks, "you're not ready."

Catelyn huffs and a spark of anger passes through her eyes. _Good_ , Sansa thinks. Anger is good. Anger gives you a reason to get up in the morning. Anger makes you move.

Part of her is annoyed at Arya, at her insistence on having an extravagant birthday party like this year is no different. Like life hasn't been turned upside down. But then, she supposes, she hasn't been here. Everyone grieves differently and she has no right to judge.

"I'll never be ready," Catelyn insists, "your father was my life… but he's gone. He's not coming back. It's time we get used to it."

Sansa understands where she's coming from, but it still doesn't feel quite right. A party at the very Jazz club Robb met Margaery, dancing and drinking like nothing's changed, like Ned still stands in the corner, gently laughing at his children through his husky cloud of cigar smoke.

But deep down, Sansa knows... he'd want them to put on a brave face, even for one night. He'd want them to do it for Arya, to pretend they're happy when they're drowning without him.

The conversation is halted when Jon comes in, absentmindedly walking to the fridge without looking at them. He opens the door and peers inside, seemingly searching for something.

"Ah Jon," Catelyn sighs, capturing his attention.

Instantly, his entire demeanour changes. He seems to soften, that permanent scowl melting away.

"You okay, Cat?" he asks gently, taking a bottle of beer from the fridge and closing the door. There's a flash of white as he opens it with his teeth, spitting the cap into the trash. Sansa winces, hating that habit as much now as she did when they were teenagers.

_"You'll crack your teeth one day," she scowls, giving him a playful swat on the chest, "and then what?"_

_He smirks, curling an arm around her waist to drag her to him._

_"Then I'll have cracked teeth," he shrugs easily, dark eyes flickering to her mouth, "and you'll still love me."_

_She rolls her eyes and his kiss steals her reply._

"Will you please tell my stubborn daughter we are throwing a party for Arya, just like we do every year?" Catelyn says, her optimistic words at odds with the dark circles under her eyes, the gauntness to her face.

Jon leans against the kitchen counter, tipping his head to the side.

"Are you sure you're ready?" he asks gently, "a big social event like that… it might be a bit much for you."

"Oh, you two!" she throws the cloth she's cleaning with onto the table, "still each other's shadows."

Sansa shifts in her seat uncomfortably, a sensation that only intensifies when she notices the almost teasing expression on Jon's face.

"What _was_ it that Ned used to say about us?"

Catelyn's face lights up, a small laugh falling from her lips, and while Sansa's happy to see her smile, she narrows her eyes at Jon.

"Oh, he used to say you were soulmates," she rolls her eyes, the corners of her lips twitching, "the romantic old fool."

Jon arches his brow, almost daring Sansa to object. She doesn't, but she can't quite meet his eyes either, and her mother keeps talking.

"He said he used to wonder why he found you, Lyanna's boy. Why he just knew he had to bring you home to us," she looks wistful then, her gaze slightly glassy, and Sansa can feel the unbearable heat of Jon's eyes on her, "and then you came along, my darling, a month early – like you couldn't bear for him to be in the world a minute longer without you. And Ned said he _knew –_ he had brought Jon home for you. I can't tell you how many times I found you in each other's rooms, even when you were children, like you just always, _always_ needed to be near each other."

Sansa's chest feels too tight, the air too thin, and when she finally lifts her eyes, Jon doesn't look like he's teasing anymore. He looks like he's been trying to make a point and Sansa feels inexplicably angry.

"Of course, then you became teenagers and sneaking into each other's rooms at night wasn't so funny," she teases, crossing her arms over her chest, "though I'm not so naïve as to think that stopped you."

Jon laughs then, a husky sound from the back of his throat, and Sansa feels her cheeks burn.

She stands up with a scrape of her chair, trying to ignore the way his mouth wraps around the bottle as he takes a swig. She mumbles an excuse to leave and when she's in the hallway, when they think she's out of range, their voices make her stop in her tracks.

"But Jon…" her mother's tone is stern again, quiet and low, and Sansa leans her back against the wall so she can listen.

He hums in reply and Sansa can imagine him strumming his fingers on the side of the bottle, perhaps absentmindedly picking at the label.

"If she's happy with this _Harry_ …" she warns, "you must let her go. You must promise not to interfere."

It's silent for a moment, Sansa's heart in her throat, before he murmurs:

"I will promise no such thing."

The club is heady and filled with smoke, so thick Sansa can barely make out her sister.

She's dancing with a boy she doesn't recognise and she watches her tip her head back and laugh. Not for the first time, she wishes her father was here. She wishes she hadn't wasted so much time and guilt kicks at her stomach, something powerful and devastating.

"She's _druuunk,_ " Theon drawls from behind her, coming to sit down next to her. That permanent playful expression is etched on his features and he places a Martini, her favourite, in her hand while he sips on his beer.

Her heart clenches at the familiarity of it all, how easy it is to slip into old habits.

She reminds herself - _warns_ herself - of this when she notices Jon speaking to Robb and Margaery across the table.

Some habits are meant to be broken.

She drags her attention back to Arya.

"She's almost twenty," she quirks a brow, "we should let her have this."

Theon raises a brow of his own in mock surprise.

"Do my ears deceive me?" he puts a hand over his heart, " _the_ Sansa Stark allowing her sister some good old fashioned fun?"

"I'm not _that_ boring," Sansa pouts, her brows furrowing.

She remembers the girl she used to be, so careful and cautious, always weighing her options, never taking risks. She remembers how very different she was to brash Robb, excitable Bran, impulsive Arya and reckless Theon.

Even with Jon, so quiet and brooding, there was an unruliness to him that she could never control.

Control is all she has now, even as she feels it slipping through her fingers.

Theon smirks, nudging her slightly with his shoulder.

"I'm joking, kiddo," he murmurs, "it's good to have you back."

Her lips twitch at that, a warmth spreading through her chest. It grows cold again, ice seeping into her veins, when she reminders herself this won’t be forever. Soon, she’ll have to go back to LA, back to Harry.

She’d written to him to let him know she was staying a while. She hasn’t gotten a response yet, but she’s comfortable in the knowledge that it’s fine. Harry would never push, the quiet in the storm.

_“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks when she tells him of her father’s funeral and watches his leg twitch anxiously behind his writing desk._

_“No,” she murmurs; she has to face this alone. “it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen them. I think it’s best if I go alone.”_

_Harry nods, but there's a crease between his brows._

_“I’ll have to meet them eventually, Sansa,” he says, “you’re to be my wife.”_

_“I know,” she bristles under his scrutiny, “you will.”_

_“When?”_

_She can't give him an answer._

“You could stay, you know,” Theon’s voice interrupts her memory, and his brow is cocked like he can read her mind.

Sansa sighs, her eyes focused ahead, watching Jon now twirl Arya, watching him award her a rare smile, watching her throw her head back and laugh.

“I can’t.”

Theon laughs through his nose, a small, disbelieving sound.

“They need you,” he says gently, “they’re going to need you even more.”

Sansa raises her fingers to her cheekbone, wiping away the tear that she somehow knew would be there.

“Theon, I don’t want to talk about this.”

He nods at her tone, getting the picture, and he opens his mouth to speak again but suddenly Jon’s in-front of them.

As the band strikes up a familiar tune – _I’m a Fool to Want You,_ Sansa recognises it with a wry smile – he extends a hand to her.

“Dance with me,” Jon commands in a low murmur, but his voice is soft.

She thinks about saying no. She thinks about staying here with Theon, or arguing with Arya, or sipping martinis with Margaery.

But she does none of these things. She simply swallows past the lump in her throat and takes Jon’s hand.

His mouth twitches triumphantly as he leads her to the middle of the room.

She holds her breath when he curls an arm around her waist and drags her to him. It feels momentous, touching him again, being in his arms after all this time.

Her eyes and throat inexplicably burn and her chest feels too tight and she pushes down the sensations.

He, on the other hand, looks calm. His face is relaxed, that sullen expression softened, all hints of anger wiped away. She wonders if it’s _because_ she’s in his arms again, where she’s been missing for so long.

 _Leave him to Sansa,_ Catelyn would always say when he slammed a door or came home with blood on his clothes or shut himself away, _she always knows how to bring him back._

The song continues and Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes at the lyrics, far more poignant than she cares for.

“Is Arya having a good time?” she murmurs after a beat, settling one hand on his shoulder and encasing the other in his own, held at shoulder height by their sides.

She tries to keep a distance, tries to not let their bodies touch, but he doesn’t award her the privilege. His arm snakes around her waist tighter, pulling her in until she can smell him, his cologne, all whiskey and smoke.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Sansa laughs, but there’s no humour in it.

“She’s still not exactly my biggest fan.”

His clicks his tongue, his stormy eyes drifting from her face to just behind her.

“So fix it,” he gives a simple shrug, “you’re a Stark. Take control.”

“It seems like the Starks _have_ been taking control in my absence,” she grumbles and it’s not a compliment, “you didn’t think to intervene when Robb stole Joffrey Baratheon’s fiancé?”

"We take what we want, _tesoro_ ," he murmurs, one eyebrow arched, "booze, women, _lives_... surely you haven't forgotten that."

Sansa arches a brow of her own, her gaze flickering to his generous mouth as he continues to move them to the music.

"Have you taken many?"

"Lives?"

 _No,_ she thinks, _I don’t want to know that._

"Women."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm not sure that's any of your business."

He's right, it's not, but she still itches to know and she tells him as much, her stomach inexplicably in knots.

"It's _definitely_ not my business... but you'll tell me anyway."

He chuckles, low and deep and breathy, and he doesn't take his eyes off her.

She _burns_ under it, hot and blazing out of control.

"There have been a few," he concedes with a tip of his head, his tone casual, "mainly blondes... I try to stay away from the redheads. Nothing but trouble."

He tugs at a strand of her hair then, twirls the incriminating red around his finger, and his tone is light but his words are not.

Visions sear unbidden behind her eyelids. She thinks of him between the legs of some nameless blonde, the stark contrast of inky curls versus ice and snow against feather-lined pillows. She thinks they're probably beautiful, these women he's sought comfort in, small and curvy where she is tall and slender, fun and carefree where she is cautious and restrained.

She bets they look nothing like her; Harry looks nothing like Jon, after-all.

"None that have stuck?" 

"None that have stuck."

She shouldn't be happy about that - she's _not_ happy about that - and because she can't help herself, she asks, "why?"

Something dances behind his eyes but he doesn't let it show and she wishes she could be like him - cool, unaffected, _steel._

"None of them make that cute little noise when they come," he taps her nose, such an innocent gesture compared to the words from his mouth, and Sansa's cheeks burst into heat.

"Jon!" she hisses, outraged, her gaze darting around the room as though someone might have heard.

He just smirks in reply, dragging her to him again with a husky rumble from his chest when she tries to draw back.

His touch burns where he holds her hand and her waist.

“So shy…” he teases, but his voice is a little rough, “but how many times have I had you?”

The room feels too small, her cheeks on fire, and she resents him for making her feel this way.

“Too many lifetimes ago to matter,” she insists pointedly, refusing to meet his eyes, “besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked too.”

Her tone is sullen then, a little childish, as she sets her jaw and still won’t look at him.

“Of course,” he murmurs like it’s obvious, “who else has ever seen me but you?”

Her gaze snaps to his then, the depth to his words not lost on her. His expression is serious, any trace of humour gone, and now she really can’t breathe.

She opens her mouth to respond, but then his hands are gripping her tighter, _too tight,_ and his brows are drawing into a frown.

“What is it?” she practically _feels_ the ice creep over his skin.

“I can’t believe she’s invited him,” he bites out in reply, “Robb’s going to lose his shit.”

Sansa turns, her gaze following his eye-line where she finds Arya chatting to a young man. He looks familiar, but she can’t quite place him, can’t accurately sort through her memories, and she turns back to Jon.

“Who is that?”

Jon’s eyes darken to black, smoke and shadows, and his jaw clenches once more.

“Robert’s son,” he says roughly, “Gendry Baratheon.”


	7. Chapter 7

It takes five minutes for Robb to notice Gendry Baratheon.

As Jon suspected, he doesn't react well.

Sansa watches as Margaery places a hand on his arm, her eyes soft but concerned as she glances up at him. His expression hardens, his jaw ticking, and Margaery tries to pull him back but he's marching over to them with fury flashing through his eyes.

Sansa glances at Jon as he drags his attention back to her, one eyebrow arched. They communicate without speaking, reading each other with an unsettling accuracy, and follow Robb's strides.

Arya doesn't look surprised as they reach her. In-fact, she lifts her chin defiantly, her jaw set, and Sansa wants to shake her. Now isn't the time for her stubbornness, her bolshiness and fire.

"What is he doing here?" Robb bites out through gritted teeth. Gendry opens his mouth, probably about to speak, and Sansa fights back a wince, praying he keeps quiet.

Arya's throwing out her defence before he can say a word.

"I invited him," she says stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest, "it's _my_ birthday and I wanted him here."

Sansa can practically feel Robb's anger, vibrating off him in waves, and Margaery's hand on his arm doesn't calm him this time.

"Come here," he grunts, taking Arya's arm. She struggles for a moment, letting out an enraged scoff of exasperation, before she lets herself by led away. Sansa and Margaery follow, the calm to their storm, and as they leave, she notices Jon place a hand on Gendry's chest in warning.

"This is family business," he says simply, stopping the young man in his tracks and gently pushing him back.

She can't hear his reply but she can see he's putting up a fight, anger lacing his features. She can also see how calm Jon remains, his head tipping to the side as he pretends to listen to Gendry's protestations.

He _doesn't_ listen - the words don't break through – and then they're all in one of the club's back rooms and Robb's locking the door.

He practically throws Arya inside, letting go of her arm like she's burned him. She stumbles slightly on her too-tall heels, her anger flaring.

"Don't fucking manhandle me," she snarls, "I'm not a baby!"

Robb lets out a bitter laugh.

"Oh, but you're _Gendry's_ baby?"

His voice is mocking, darker than Sansa ever remembers it, and he looks angry and despaired and mostly very, _very_ tired.

"He's good to me."

"He better fucking not be," he mutters, his jaw clenched tight.

Arya scoffs, infuriated, and rolls her eyes to the sky. Margaery stands next to Robb, close enough that she's probably hoping her presence could calm him, and Jon's standing against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. Sansa doesn't know where to stand. She doesn't know if her allegiance should be to Robb, or to Arya; she doesn't know her place anymore.

"You're being totally ridiculous," Arya accuses, unwilling to back down.

"I _told_ you," he seethes, his top lip curled into a snarl, "I told you you weren't to see him anymore."

Arya's nostrils flare as fury flashes through her dark eyes.

"And I told _you_ , you're _not_ my father," she throws back, matching his anger, "Gendry is _good._ He's nice and he makes me happy and - "

"He's a Baratheon!" Robb raises his voice like that _means_ something, his fury mixing with incredulity, "do you not understand what that means? Robert could have _killed_ father. We're about to start a war I don't know if we can win, and _you_ want to sleep with the enemy."

"He's not the enemy," she rolls her eyes again, "even if Robert did it... it's nothing to do with Gendry. He hates him!"

"He's still his son," Robb argues, "his blood runs through his veins. That means something in our world and you know it. You're not stupid."

"No, I'm not stupid," her voice is quieter then, "but I'm also not a child and you have to stop treating me like one. Were you worrying about a feud with the Stags when you stole Joffrey Baratheon's fiancé?"

Sansa blinks, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes flicker to Margaery.

To her credit, the other woman doesn't react, her expression cool and collected. Robb's the one who angers, a slight twitch to his mouth.

His chest rises and falls furiously and he opens his mouth, but it's not his voice that comes out.

"Watch it, Arya." Jon warns with an arched brow, his arms still crossed over his chest.

If she's honest with herself, Sansa's surprised by this.

When she was younger, Jon would often let Arya sleep in his bed. He would normally be on the floor, but sometimes if she crept into his room and he was already asleep, she'd crawl in right next to him. He'd pick her up from school in his car and make sure the kids across the road didn't call her horse-face and remind Catelyn to get Cap'n Crunch from the grocery store because she was the only one who liked it.

Jon has always been Arya's protector, her one true ally, yet his stance behind Robb, jaw clenched and expression hard, is unmovable.

Arya glares at him like he's betrayed her.

"I can't believe you're defending him!" she raises her voice, angry and outraged and _hurt,_ " _you!_ God, you're hypocrites! You - " she points a furious finger at Robb, " - didn't care about feuds and what was best for The Family when you married Margaery. And _you_ \- " she turns to Jon, " - didn't care about what was appropriate or right either when you were _fucking_ our sister."

Sansa's mouth falls open, stunned, as her blood turns cold. Even Jon reacts, a small flinch, a small chip in that impenetrable armour, but he can't say anything because Robb's shoulders fold like worn parchment and he _explodes._

 _"_ Arya... I can't... god _damn it,_ Dad!" he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, practically shaking with rage, " _he should fucking be here._ "

They fall into stunned silence, the air _crackling_ with the force of his anger.

Sansa watches the colour drain from his face, watches the slight tremble in Margaery's bottom lip as she gently rubs his back and tries to contain her own emotions.

His head bows, jaw clenched tight, and she looks away. She knows he doesn't mean it. It wasn't Ned's fault that he died, of course it wasn't, but if he was here... none of this _shit_ would be Robb's problem. He's had to grow up too fast, carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and there are lines on his face that weren't there before she left.

She's never seen Robb look so... old.

She's been so wrapped up in herself, so buried under her own guilt and the ache of seeing Jon again, she hasn't allowed herself to see how very _lost_ he is.

"Just - " he speaks in a bitten off whisper, his eyes shut as he turns from her, "stay away from boys, Arya."

To Sansa's relief, Arya doesn't bite back this time. In-fact, she looks shaken, as taken back by Robb's explosive reaction as everyone else in the room.

Her dark eyes fill with tears, because he's her _brother_ and she loves him, and she sways on her feet, like she's going to reach for him, but just _can't_.

There's so much space between them all now, so much pain and anger and resentment, and when Robb and Margaery leave, Robb slamming the door behind them, she still can't move.

She just stares at Arya, at Jon and back again, the atmosphere tense between them.

She wishes Father were here too.

They put on a brave face, mainly for Catelyn who's already so fragile, but Gendry doesn't stay.

Sansa can tell it's soured for Arya, who sits in the corner and avoids everyone, and she can also tell Robb's regretful, but he won't approach her either. They're as stubborn as each other, as angry and unyielding, and this is _exactly_ why Sansa hates the family business in the first place.

It tears them all apart. It always has.

She drinks. She drinks to fill the hole in her chest, she drinks to forget, and when that's not enough and her fingers itch for a smoke, she almost walks outside to undo all the hard work she's done.

It's only Margaery that stops her, slumping down in the seat next to her.

She looks _tired._ Sansa's been waiting for this moment, for the ball to drop, to see those lines of worry etched on her pretty face, the strains of loving someone so devoted to this family.

Now she sees it, plain as day in the dullness of her normally sparkling eyes, and she wishes she'd never seen it at all.

She covers her hand where it lays on the table, sticky with spilt alcohol, and struggles with what to say.

She can't say it'll be okay. She can't promise that Arya will stop seeing Gendry ( _why should she?_ ) or that they'll find out what happened to Father or that Robb will find his way.

She can't say any of these things because she just _doesn't know_.

Turns out, she doesn't have to say anything at all, because Margaery breaks the silence.

"Tell me about Harry."

Sansa doesn't speak at first, her head tipping to the side curiously, imploring.

Margaery turns to her, eyes dark and slightly glassy.

"Distract me," she pleads, "please."

Sansa nods mutely, brushing a stray strand of red behind her ear.

"He's... uh... he's a doctor, but you probably knew that already," she clears her throat awkwardly, "we met at his hospital when my friend Jeyne slipped over in the rain and got a concussion. He asked me to dinner and we kind of... went from there."

_God._

She's making it sound so boring, so lame, but she can't think of what to say.

That he's obsessed with his job and would work 25 hours a day if he could? That his mother doesn't like her and his friends don't either and he never puts the cap on the toothpaste when he's finished? That he gave her money for her last birthday and he's always too tired to make love to her?

She's stunned at how quickly her mind jumped to the negative and she bites her lip.

When she says he asked her to dinner and it went from there, what she _really_ means is that she forced herself to _move._

She forced herself to realise that the slump she was in, missing home and missing them and missing _him,_ wasn't life. So when she met Harry and he kept asking her to dinner, on the third attempt, she found herself saying yes.

And when she was getting ready, it wasn't so much that it was _him_ asking, but that it was something she had to do. She'd made a commitment and she had to see it through. Then he asked her on another date, and she had to see that through too, and _there it was_. A reason to move.

"He's a good person," Sansa settles on eventually, her voice softening slightly, "he's uncomplicated and he loves me. He'd never hurt me."

Margaery smiles, gentle and poignant as she reads between the lines.

_Jon's not a good person._

_Jon's complicated._

"Jon loves you," Margaery finishes the last thought for her and Sansa tries to ignore how she uses the present tense.

"But Jon _always_ hurt me."

She tips her head at that, a slight look of defeat flashing through her eyes.

"He is dark, you are light," she sighs wistfully, "his other half."

But light can't always drive out dark, Sansa reminds herself, and you can't always save the ones you love.

Countless hours and drinks later, Jon carries a sleeping Arya up the steps to the Stark mansion.

It's so late - or early - the sun is already rising and from behind him, bare feet crunching painfully on gravel, Sansa watches warm amber light streak across his back. She watches the muscles in his back flex under his crisp white shirt, devoid of the black suit jacket that's now wrapped around her own shoulders.

She pulls it tighter around her, breathing in his scent, smoke and whiskey and something else that's distinctly _him._

Robb and Margaery took Catelyn home hours ago and she assumes the rest of the mansion is asleep as they walk up the stairs in silence. Sansa leans against the frame of Arya's door when Jon opens it and takes her inside.

She watches, quiet and intrigued, as he gently lays her down on her bed.

Arya stirs, her brow furrowed in her sleep, and Sansa's mouth twitches sadly at the small whine of sorrow her sister releases. She's troubled, as much as the rest of them, and she's sure the situation with Robb and Gendry affects her more than she'd ever let on.

Jon places his palm on her forehead, probably feeling it cool and clammy from too much drink, and he gently brushes a strand of hair away from her face. Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat, crossing her arms over her chest and simply watching.

This is the closest she's come to seeing this side of Jon. When he leans down to place a soft kiss on her forehead, she has to look away. She can't see him like this, doesn't want to.

It's easier for her to only remember the bad parts of him.

His eyes are dark but soft as he walks towards her and she moves aside, watching as he closes Arya's door.

Then it's just the two of them, wordlessly walking side by side to her room just down the hall, and the world suddenly feels very small indeed.

"Margaery seemed upset," she whispers because she has to say _something,_ and Margaery seems like a safe, neutral topic.

Jon tips his head, seemingly considering this.

"Robb... has a lot on his mind. It's a heavy burden."

He glances down at her, a small twitch to his mouth, but there's no joy in it. It's a sad smile, one that conceals more than it reveals, and Sansa pushes for more.

"Are you any closer to finding out what happened to Dad?"

They reach her door just as she finishes asking, and she turns around, leaning her back against it.

She waits.

He just stares at her, dark eyes guarded and jaw locked, and when he doesn't say anything, she releases her frustration in an incredulous scoff.

"You wouldn't tell me anything then," she mutters, her hand reaching behind her to twist the door handle, "I don't know why I thought you'd tell me anything now."

He sighs at that, something half-bitten out and tortured, and runs a tired hand over his face.

She's just about to turn the handle to go inside, to escape this, when they notice Theon stumbling up the stairs with an equally drunk brunette attached to his mouth.

"Shit."

She's not sure who says it. She's not sure who makes the first move. All she knows is one minute she's staring up at him, her fingers curled around the doorknob, and the next she's in her room, dragging Jon with her and closing the door behind them.

Somehow they're flipped, her back against the door again, but this time, his hand is next to her head, his arm caging her in.

She bites back her gasp, electrified by his proximity, and her gaze flickers involuntarily to his lips.

"You're in my room," she whispers, almost incredulously, and she almost expects him to smirk, but he doesn't.

"You want Theon asking questions?" he asks her and she practically shudders, knowing the relentless questions and teasing she'd get from him if he saw them seemingly chatting cosily by her bedroom door.

"No," she agrees quietly, " _I_ want to ask the questions."

His mouth does twitch at that, just one corner, bitter and sharp.

"You want too much."

She shakes her head minutely, a sad feeling suddenly welling up inside her.

"There is nothing that I want," she counters quietly, "just to know what happened to my father. I don't want history to repeat itself."

They're teetering on a knife's edge, what they can say and what they can't, and the implication behind her words is clear.

He leans in slightly, his hand still by her head on the door, and she watches his gaze flicker to her mouth.

"You think I'd make those mistakes again?"

He tilts his head, his eyes searching hers, and she feels like his hand is reaching into her chest, squeezing tight around her heart.

"I think you can't help yourself," she says, her tone harsh, and she watches his jaw flex, "I think you can't change who you are any more than I can."

"So why are you trying to?"

His voice is clipped, his hand pushing off the door as he takes a step back and puts some distance between them.

"What?"

"You're a wolf," he says, "A Stark. You always will be, no matter how much you try to run, to shape yourself into someone new."

"So tell me the truth," she demands, more rattled than she'd ever let on.

"The truth?" he repeats roughly, "the truth that we _don't_ know what happened to Ned, but that _someone_ close to us told Robert about my parents and it could be any of us? The truth that it could be Theon, or Margaery, or Gendry, or even _me?"_

"You wouldn't," she shakes her head because he _loves_ this family. Because he's fiercely loyal and he's never cared about the power that comes with being a Targaryen, and if she's sure of anything anymore, she's sure of _this._

"I was careless with you when we were younger," he murmurs, catching her eye, and then he's taking a step forward and caging her in again with both hands on the door by her head, "I've learned my lesson. I would never make those mistakes again. _That's_ my truth."

He's too close. She can feel him and touch him and if she tilted her head just right, her lips would be brushing his - _again, finally._ It's too much, the ache too intense, and her eyes and throat burn with tears.

"I can't," she swallows, closing her eyes as his forehead gently touches hers.

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes are shut too.

"Jon, please," she whispers, begging for nothing and everything all at once, "Harry..."

"Don't," he bites out, his mouth travelling to her cheek, blazing a trail on her flushed cheek, until he speaks into her hair, "don't say his name. Don't even think it. Not when you're here with me, like this."

But she has to.

She summons every scrap of willpower she has left to push him away from her, practically shaking from the force of it, and opens her door.

This time, he doesn't ask her to stay.


End file.
